


Chokedamp and Feelings

by FandomN00b



Series: Solona Amell and the Rebel Wardens in the East [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Bears, Cave-In, Deep Roads, Early Relationship, Hand Job, M/M, Near-Suffocation, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, deep mushroom bronto stroghainoff, deep roads quickie, sex then feelings, they are pretty sure they're gonna die, wardens being wardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27319126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: Sometimes it takes facing imminent death to admit you have feelings for someone. Especially when you're a bitter, old, broken man with a crush on your new Warden-Commander, who is also anOrlesian. Gross.
Relationships: Loghain Mac Tir/Jean-Marc Stroud
Series: Solona Amell and the Rebel Wardens in the East [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529891
Comments: 42
Kudos: 18





	1. Cave-In

**Author's Note:**

> This probably fits into the same world state as [Solona Amell and the Rebel Wardens in the East](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529891), but you absolutely don't need to read any of that prior to this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain and Stroud find themselves cut-off from the rest of their Warden unit...and their supply of oxygen.

“As Warden- _Commander_ , aren’t you meant to be in control of this operation?” 

“The Deep Roads are vast and ancient…” Stroud murmurs, staring at the pile of rubble that’s just fallen between them and the rest of their unit, trying to determine whether it’s worth trying to tunnel through it or if they should turn back and find another way around. He can still sense the others, can feel them sizing up the situation themselves on the other side, so it's not _completely_ without hope.

“As are the Wardens.” Loghain looks him over from behind, eyeing his waistline. “ _Some_ more vast than others.”

“Listen, _Old_ Man…” Stroud spins around. “ _We_ didn’t make them! We simply use them…” 

“Well, perhaps someone ought to undertake _mapping_ them, at least.” 

“Are you volunteering? Certainly, someone with _your_ experience might make an excellent cartographer…?” 

Loghain hisses at him then, and Stroud gets a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “As Warden-Commander of the Order in the East, I officially dub thee Warden- _Surveyor_ and charge you with mapping and exploring as much of the Deep Roads as you are able until your Calling summons you into the Abyss.” 

“Oh, fuck _you_!” 

Stroud’s mustache twitches in amusement. He knows he takes far too much delight in getting under his skin, but he just can’t seem to help himself, and the old grumpy bastard makes it so damn _easy_. 

“ _That_ was not part of the job description.” He takes special care to over-emphasize his Orlesian accent, and Loghain just glares daggers at him, before turning away in a huff and storming off to search for an alternate route in the corridor behind them. 

The new Warden-Surveyor must be eager to get to his task, Stroud muses. It takes _all_ of his considerable willpower not to say this out loud, of course, as he watches him disappear into the darkness.

He’s only gone for a few minutes before another seismic rumble comes thundering through the passageway. Stroud is able to avoid the small chunks of the walls and ceiling that fall around him, but the bulk of the damage seems to be further down the corridor this time...where Loghain has just gone stumping off to. He follows after him, then, sensing his presence through the dark, searching for any glints of silverite buried under the new piles of wreckage.

“Mac Tir!” he whispers when his Warden senses fail to pinpoint his exact location, worried that if he speaks any louder it'll only trigger further collapse.

He eventually gets a muffled groan in response, and he follows it, moving debris carefully out of his way until he sees Loghain's pale sour face looking up at him with a grimace. It's not clear if this is from pain or fear or humiliation, but Stroud gets a vague sense that it's some combination of all three. 

“Don’t move…” Stroud tells him unnecessarily, and Loghain just rolls his eyes. “I’m going to try and dig you out.”

“As soon as you do, I imagine we’ll be swallowed up by the rest of these caverns.”

“That’s keeping it positive,” Stroud snorts as quietly as he can.

“ _Just_ the opinion of your Warden-Surveyor…” Loghain drawls, half a smile ghosting over his lips before he catches himself and the grimace returns.

Fortunately, Stroud is able to remove the rest of the debris without triggering any further shifts, but as he lifts the last large piece that seems to have Loghain’s leg pinned underneath it, he glances worriedly back up at him.

“Can you stand?”

“Ow! Fuck!” Loghain yelps as soon as he tries.

“I think your leg might be broken.”

“No shit…” he groans through gritted teeth. He has half a mind to tell him to slam the boulder back down on top of him and just crush it completely, or to cut it off with his sword. At least then he won't have to feel it anymore.

“Once we get back to camp, we have elfroot and more supplies to properly set it, but for now, I can make a crude sort of splint to avoid further damage if you think you can get up and walk?"

“I hardly think a broken leg will make much of a difference since there’s nowhere for us to _go_.”

As if on cue, another tremor announces another phase of the relentless cave-in, and they are well and thoroughly trapped now, in a space about the size of a fairly large and luxurious outhouse.

“Do you smell that?” Loghain wrinkles his nose up, more than usual, as a sharp, acrid smell begins to drift through the cramped space once things have settled around them once again.

“Yes." Stroud nods. "Chokedamp, I suspect. Seems all this seismic activity has shaken _some_ things in these ancient caves loose. Besides the walls themselves, of course.”

“Is this a _joke_ to you?!”

There’s panic in the older man’s voice now, and Stroud feels bad about that. Loghain, the Traitor, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the General, the Hero of River Dane...it occurs to him that so much of Loghain’s life has been spent fighting. For survival. For freedom. For the ability to decide his own fate. And _this_...this is simply not that kind of fight. There’s nothing really left to do but wait for death or a miraculous rescue.

“No." His accent becomes noticeably less Orlesian now. "Sorry…being down here...being a Warden...it uh, fosters a certain sense of humor about these kinds of situations.”

Loghain doesn't seem at all satisfied with this as he turns and begins scrabbling at the rocks and kicking ineffectively with his unbroken leg at the wall.

“You should rest,” Stroud advises him. There’s a strange sort of acceptance in his voice as he slouches down next to him.

"What is the point of resting if we're going to suffocate?"

"Because all you're doing now is inviting more of these crumbling tunnels to fall down on our heads.”

"Better to be doing _something_ than simply waiting around for death," he grumbles at the stone.

"You really _don't_ understand what it is to be a Warden," Stroud laughs.

Loghain has had enough of Stroud's good-natured stoicism. He snaps his head abruptly around to face him, but instead of punching him, which is what Stroud expects, he reaches a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him to his mouth.

“I was _just_ \--” Stroud blurts.

“Shut up and let me kiss you,” Loghain growls against his lips. “If we’re going to die in this mess, it might as well be... _enjoyable_.” 

“Are you sure it's not just the romantic atmosphere down here?” Stroud winks. 

The smell of the gas _is_ starting to become a bit overwhelming. They probably don’t have too much time before one or both of them passes out.

“No.” Loghain shakes his head. He hates him for forcing him to admit this next part out loud, but “I have…wanted to do _this_...since...well," he stammers, then looks suddenly even more determined to continue. He doesn't really know how long they've been down here crawling their way under Ferelden toward Vigil's Keep, probably only a matter of weeks, but it feels like it's been ages. And he has felt an unexpected and thoroughly unwelcome growing attraction to the cheeky bastard, at _least_ since Orzammar.

Stroud smiles at him. That infuriatingly _honest_ and knowing grin that gets under his skin precisely because the man _does_ know, and Loghain snaps his mouth shut with a scowl. 

“Me too,” Stroud says.

He leans in for another kiss but Loghain pulls away just before their lips meet again. 

“This...doesn’t mean I don’t still _loathe_ Orlais.”

“Of course not!” Stroud laughs. “Can’t say I’m a very big fan of it myself.”

“Or that I’ve somehow come ‘round on this whole self-sacrificial Warden business...” Loghain’s hands drift down toward Stroud’s waist.

“Few of us ever truly come to peace with it, you know.” His eyes follow Loghain’s hands as they move to the buckles on his armor. “But this is a fine way to go, if you ask me…” 

Loghain grunts his agreement and wets his lips, nodding impatiently as he fusses with the buckles on his silverite tassets.

Stroud grasps his belt and looks back up at him. “What’s the plan, Mac Tir?”

“We try to get each other off before we both suffocate and die, buried together like two old sacks of shit in the bloody Deep Roads...I thought that was obvious?” 

“Got any other rules?” 

“Yes.” 

Stroud’s eyebrows go up. This might end up being even more interesting than he’d thought.

“Stop talking. It's wasting what little oxygen we have left.”

Stroud nods, fighting back another chuckle. He unbuckles Loghain’s armor and slides it carefully down over his hips, trying to avoid jostling his injured leg.

“ _Shit_...” Loghain hisses as Stroud reaches less carefully into his pants and wraps his hand around him, calluses grazing the soft, sensitive flesh of his cock. 

He has half a mind to throw him off of him, then. It’s been ages since he’s been touched. Not just like this...but by _anyone_...at all. And it's all a bit overwhelming, but in their current situation, and his increasingly oxygen-deprived state, he can’t really afford to reflect much on that.

Stroud brings a finger to Loghain’s lips before he can break his own rule again, and Loghain pulls it in between his teeth, shamelessly nipping and sucking at it and pulling him in closer until Stroud is rutting against him. The Warden-Commander buries his face into his neck as he lets out a sort of idiotic giggling moan.

It’s the kind of sound Loghain would have normally found off-putting in nearly any other circumstance, made by anyone else, but it lights something up deep inside of him. Perhaps it’s just the chokedamp and their mutual lack of oxygen. But it’s even more than the jolt he gets as Stroud begins to stroke him more urgently, pulling his finger out of Loghain's mouth and grasping for his own cock.

Loghain spits into his hand and reaches down into Stroud's lap, shoving past the lacings of his pants and he grabs him himself, matching Stroud’s ministrations until they’re fucking each other’s hands together in tandem. He hears it again, that ridiculous whimper, but it’s deeper this time, and he wants nothing more than to keep that stupid sound bubbling against his skin and all the way through him until he’s gone from this cursed plane of existence. Any minute now, in fact.

Stroud comes first, and then collapses against Loghain’s shoulder for a moment, trying to catch what he can of his breath.

“Sorry…” he stammers, as he tries to maneuver clumsily in front of him and bumps against his broken leg in the bleary haze of his diminishing consciousness.

But Loghain finds that the pain is barely detectable anymore as his body begins to shuffle around its dwindling resources to its most important functions. His cock is still apparently one of them, because he’s close, he can feel it. 

Stroud plants his hands on either side of Loghain's thighs and leans over into his lap. He takes him into his mouth, his tongue lolling up and down his shaft with increasingly delirious abandon, and Loghain tries to help...tries to guide him with his hands on his shoulders as his hips buck haphazardly of their own accord. It’s marvelous and it’s tragic that he’ll never get to return the favor, he thinks, as his vision begins to blur and he finds his release at the back of his Warden-Commander’s throat before slumping back against the wall and passing into unconsciousness.

A loud boom somehow awakens him and the whole world is shaking and shuddering again, and he braces himself for the last of the ancient ceiling to cave in overhead and crush them. But the ceiling somehow remains, and a rush of air billows in through the dust settling around them.

Loghain gasps greedily at the fresh air, shoving Stroud out of his lap, as a thick, short-statured silhouette swims into view.

“Got ‘em!” a voice yells. “Over here!” He still can’t make out the face, but he recognizes the Glavonak dwarf by his deep gravelly voice.

“I see the _Traitor_ is still alive…” Another voice. Laced with unmistakable disdain. _Howe_.

 _Shit_. They _are_ still alive. And they’ve been...rescued? And now they’re lying there half-naked together...fucking _wonderful_.

Loghain tries to stand, remembering that his leg is broken a bit too late to avoid causing new, fresh spikes of pain through his awakening nervous system. He curses and gropes around in the rubble for his pants, but all he can find is Stroud’s armor, which he scrambles to pull back over his lap.

“Relax...ain’t anything we haven’t seen before,” Glavonak laughs. 

Loghain can’t be certain if he’s referring to his cock or the Warden-Commander caught in a compromising position with one of his subordinates. And he finds he doesn’t really want to know at the moment. Just wants to get out of these bloody caves.

“And Stroud?” Nate asks.

“Post-coital snooze?”

Loghain’s eyes dart over to Stroud, who should’ve been up and about by now, but he’s still lying there where he’d shoved him off of him. “Asphyxiation, you idiots! Get a healer!”

“Uh-huh. Well, we don’t have that. So are _you_ gonna blow some fresh air into his lungs or do you want one of us to do it?”

He doesn’t waste any time sneering at the dwarf. He bends down, sealing his lips around his mouth and pinching his nose, and tries to huff breath back into his lungs, as he rips his chestplate off of him. He sits up and presses down on his chest. Again. And again. And again. Then he bends over and breathes frantically into his mouth again. Then back to his chest to try to help circulate whatever life might still be left in him. Loghain doesn’t dare to stop and try to feel for a pulse. Another breath. More chest compressions. The Maker _would_ see fit to let a good man like Stroud die like this while he’s forced to go on enduring this doomed non-life.

But Stroud finally sputters and coughs and gasps and his eyes fly open, flicking between Loghain’s eyes and his mouth and his fists still pounding against his chest.

Loghain looks down with a flood of relief threatening to undo his permanent scowl, then backs away abruptly, cursing his busted leg, and finally finds his pants wadded up at his ankles. He yanks them up as hastily as he can and then reaches for his armor piled up nearby before he remembers to fill his own lungs back up again.

“Welcome back, Warden-Commander,” Nate says, offering Stroud a hand.

“Well done, gentlemen…” Either Stroud doesn’t realize his cock is out, or he doesn’t care. And the other two seem completely unconcerned about it as well. They’re soldiers, after all. And the intimacy of that _should_ be familiar to him. It’s just been so long since he’s had...comrades. Or whatever the flames Stroud is to him now that he’s gone and confessed his fucking feelings amid the delirium of imminent death. He has made the mistake of wanting too much of someone before. But Stroud is _nothing_ like Maric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be fluffy, a wonderful prompt "cave-in with a side of giddifying fumes" from CatherineThePrettyGreat ([CatC here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatC/works)) but...uhhh...look...I don't know! I don't even know!!! It just went there...I imagine their relationship is just more of this. Taking turns saving each other's asses, bickering, and then sex in the most awkward places.


	2. Bronto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain has some feelings about the young feral bronto Temmerin and Nate manage to wrangle in the Deep Roads.

They don’t immediately speak of what happened. And Loghain pretends that he prefers it that way, grunting something inaudible when Stroud tries to thank him for resuscitating him as Nate and Temmerin pull their supply cart over and begin shoving the explosives aside to make room for him. 

He can’t help but wonder, though, as everyone goes about things so automatically and without question, not even pausing to lift another eyebrow at them about what they have just seen, if this was all just some part of his ‘initiation’ into their weird little group. He knows that some of the others fool around with each other, and that everyone’s needs seem to be met in some way or another with little fuss or resulting tension. It makes sense, honestly, as they are largely cut-off from the surface world and whatever recreational distractions it could provide, and, from a strategic standpoint, he has to admire the way the unit is able to take care of itself, like a single organism, moving, acting, even thinking and feeling in concert. 

But he can’t recall ever hearing Stroud’s grunts or little whimpering moans among all the other infernal noises he's been forced to listen to at camp. And, to his dismay, he finds that this leaves him feeling a little bit sad for the man, though he knows he would be relieved at the lack of competition if he were a younger person, looking for that sort of thing.

“Ready to move?” Stroud asks him. And he nods. 

Stroud hoists him to his feet, throwing Loghain's arm over his shoulder, and guides him slowly to the cart as Loghain does his best not to put any weight on his broken leg. This requires him to lean against Stroud, and the closeness would normally go unnoticed, except that they’ve just had sex and nearly died and Loghain can barely stand it. Literally.

“Easy…” Stroud says, steadying him with an arm around his waist, and a strong hand grasping firmly at his hip, and Loghain wishes he _had_ died in that cave-in because he can’t bear being so flustered by this mustachioed _Orlesian_ and his incessant attentiveness.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Stroud exclaims once Loghain's leg has been set and they're ready to move. “Allow me to introduce you two to our new Warden- _Surveyor_!” 

Stroud beams over at him as he says it, and Loghain doesn’t know what to make of this. It feels almost as if Stroud has introduced him as ‘the new Mr. Stroud’ or something equally domestic and insufferable. He scowls at him, which only seems to encourage him, and now Loghain is _certain_ he’s just taking the piss out of him. 

“He managed to find every weak part of this passageway within his first ten minutes on the job!”

Nate snickers and Temmerin guffaws and Loghain hopes that if he can sneer hard enough at all of them, it’ll mask the redness he’s sure is starting to spread up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Let me out of this cart,” he grumbles. “I can walk back.”

“Not so fast, Mac Tir.” Stroud puts his hand on Loghain’s shoulder, pressing him back down into the cart. “Your leg is pretty badly broken. Wouldn’t want to make it even worse. Stomping around the Deep Roads in a deep simmering rage is a lot harder on one leg.”

“Just try to sit back and enjoy the ride.” Temmerin grins. “We got a treat for you up ahead.”

Loghain hates the way the dwarf is smiling at him, but he’s too stubborn to ask what it might be, so he simply shrugs Stroud’s arm off of him and crosses his own arms, frowning back into the abyss as they continue to pull him along. 

They eventually come to a fork in the tunnel. Temmerin glances back at Stroud, and he gives him a little nod back. Then he nudges Nate, and the two of them head off one way, leaving Stroud with Loghain in the cart waiting in the main corridor.

“How bad is the pain?” Stroud asks him after a few minutes of awkward silence settles between them.

“It’s...bearable.”

“If we come across any deep mushrooms, you’ll get first dibs.”

“I doubt fungus can do much to heal a broken leg.”

“Not heal it.” Stroud chuckles. “But certainly help you forget you even _have_ legs for a bit.”

“Ah, so is this what being a Warden is? Non-stop fucking around in the Deep Roads like idiots?”

“I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a big part of it. Especially without a Blight to throw ourselves at.”

“Then let us all pray for a Blight soon…”

Stroud chuckles again, and Loghain scowls at him. “Try to rest, Old Man.” He pats him a little too softly on the shoulder, and Loghain can’t stop himself from leaning into his touch as much as he hates the fact that the unfortunate nickname seems to have stuck. 

Stroud doesn’t even flinch, just leaves his hand there, as Loghain takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his leg and fend off any further conversation by at least _pretending_ he’s asleep.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that -- or if he’s actually drifted off somehow -- but he’s roused from this meditative state by sudden shouts and rumbling and what might as well be the rest of the caverns collapsing in the direction the other pair of Wardens have disappeared in. He braces for the rockfall that will surely put him out of his misery this time, but instead, he hears... _hooves_? Much bigger and heavier than horse hooves. And grunting. He’s pretty sure it’s not just the dwarf. 

“Quick! Get that harness around ‘im!” Temmerin shouts as the rumbling and the hooves stomping and crunching over stone get closer. 

“I don’t really feel like getting impaled today, Glavonak.” 

Loghain squints into the darkness and sees the two of them wrangling a wild beast that seems to be hewn from the stone surrounding them, with ropes around several of its horns and one of its legs. Temmerin is circling it with a crude makeshift leather harness while Nate holds a rope that's been looped around one of its legs. 

“Oh come on! You’re never in the mood for any fun…” Temmerin whines. 

“We have _very_ different definitions of the word, I’m afraid.” 

“Hold your rope tight, then…and don’t let him get back past you down the tunnel again!” 

“I’ll do my best,” Nate drawls, but he doesn’t sound nearly as enthusiastic as Temmerin.

Temmerin leaps onto the creature's back, just barely avoiding one of the horns growing between the beast’s shoulder blades and throws a strap of the harness around its neck. It rears back, trying to throw him off, but Temmerin holds tight and Nate jumps out of its way as it barrels toward him. He tightens his rope until it’s taut, causing the thing to run in a circle around him, while Temmerin manages to get another strap of his homemade harness over its eyes, and the giant creature stops abruptly in its tracks, snorting impatiently, as if it’s waiting for someone to turn the lights back on before it can continue its rampage. 

“Shhhhh...just relax, little one…” Temmerin whispers as he carefully slides off its back and begins to steer the thing backwards toward them by its horns. 

Loghain wants to leap out of the cart once it becomes clear what the plan is, but he's used up all his stores of adrenaline for the day it seems. Still, he scoots as far away from them as he can while Temmerin backs the creature up against the cart and it knocks into it with all of its temporarily subdued might. 

"What in the Maker's bloody name is _that_?!" Loghain finally manages to ask. 

"A sweet baby!" Temmerin claps his hands over the creature's ears as it shuffles its feet, looking ready to charge again in spite of its blinders. 

"I refuse to stay in this cart if you plan to hook that _thing_ to it." 

"It's a bronto…" Nate rolls his eyes. "The dwarves used to breed them, just like horses or druffalo above the surface. This one's just gone a bit...feral."

" _And_ he seems to have lost his herd," Temmerin whimpers. 

"And unless Stroud wants to leave you down here," Nate says, looking at Stroud now with an eyebrow quirked somewhat optimistically and very nearly smiling. "I don't see how you have much of a choice." 

Stroud seems to be enjoying the whole situation immensely, with Loghain and the cart between him and the creature. He smiles, mustache twitching in that way Loghain hates, and he shakes his head apologetically. "We need _something_ to help pull you out of here. Even with the three of us taking turns, it would take us days. A bronto is a good thing to have on our side. Assuming it can be... _persuaded_?” He looks to Temmerin who is nodding enthusiastically while the bronto stomps and chuffs. 

"More of this reckless idiocy," Loghain scoffs. "Why am I not surprised?" 

“Awww…” Temmerin clucks. “But this little feisty one reminded us so much of you!” 

Nate snorts as Temmerin tries to pat the beast on its head affectionately, but it only seems to irritate it more. It violently butts his hand off of its nose, just barely missing goring him with one of its horns, and tries to throw off the harness by bucking its rear end up into the air, jostling the cart, and threatening to stomp it to pieces on the way back down.

“Whoah... _whoah_ …” the dwarf bellows low and gravelly, pulling a chunk of bright green moss out of his pocket and holding it in front of the bronto’s nose. It sniffs curiously, then curls its lips greedily around Temmerin's hand as Nate and Stroud move quickly to slide the loops of the harness hanging down at its shoulders around the shafts of the cart. 

_Pathetic_ , Loghain thinks. The creature seems all-too-ready to accept its new life as a beast of burden with such a meager bribe. He can feel Stroud's amusement at his predicament prickling at the back of his neck, but he refuses to look him in the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as an election-night prompt from paraparadigm (on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/paraparadigm) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraparadigm/works)) ("Loghain strongly and emphatically disapproves of brontos") and it grew into a chapter of its own.


	3. Deep Mushrooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain has his first experience with deep mushrooms and tries to be a better listener.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sure what to label this, but...recreational drug use, not the _best_ trip...

"Oy! Mushrooms!" Temmerin calls back to them from his new perch on the back of the bronto. "Whoooahh, Baby…" he coos, and then he slides off, patting the beast affectionately between its front horns. 

It slumps down to the ground with a grunt and a sigh, and the whole cart tips forward. Loghain scrambles not to go sliding and slamming face first into the creature’s hindquarters.

Nate looks to Stroud -- some kind of unspoken debate ensues -- and he eventually follows after the dwarf with a disgruntled sigh. 

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Loghain grumbles once he’s re-situated himself on the new slope of the wagon.

“I’m not.” 

“Right. What was that all about, then? Between you and the Howe kid?” 

Stroud laughs. “The Howe _kid_? He’s a grown man, you know. I’m not _that_ much older than him.”

“ _You_ didn’t know him when he was just a pain in his father’s backside.” 

“Hmmm...yes. His _father_...” Stroud narrows his eyes on him. “How many atrocities did he commit under your command?” 

“ _I_ didn’t command him to -- none of _that_ was part of the plan!” 

“Perhaps I should have left him here with you, then. Seems like the two of you might have some things to discuss.”

“I have nothing to discuss with _him_. He was off in the bloody Free Marches playing squire and avoiding his responsibilities when the fate of Ferelden was left in my hands, once again. Neither of _Maric’s_ sons were up to the task, and I had to do what I thought was best. For _Ferelden._ ”

“The _Hero_ of Ferelden seems to have thought differently than you about what was best.” Stroud smirks. “Would you have shown her the same mercy she showed you if your positions had been reversed, I wonder?”

“She got incredibly lucky and is not above making deals with demons and witches,” Loghain scoffs. “And I don’t think either of us saw _this_ as a _mercy_.”

“I can’t really argue with that.” Stroud concedes, too easily, and Loghain can’t help but feel like it might be a trap. “I don’t think she’s guilty of selling anyone to Tevinter, though.”

Yes... _definitely_ a trap. What can he possibly say in defense to _that_ , which isn’t complete and utter bullshit? That Howe had tried to sell him on the idea that the elves were better off in Tevinter than left defenseless to die against the Darkspawn in Denerim’s alienage? That they were in desperate need of resources for a war they didn’t even end up needing to fight? That his own paranoia turned him into a monster? He knows none of it justifies what he did, what he allowed to happen, and he has had to accept that. But that doesn’t mean Stroud or the others ever will, or even _should_. 

Temmerin and Nate return with the mushrooms just in time for Loghain to turn a blustery shade of purple for lack of any better defense. Stroud raises an eyebrow at him and then sets to work starting a fire, leaving him face-to-face with the other two.

“You look like you just got caught with your pants down. _Again_ ,” Temmerin finally teases after a few well-deserved moments of tense silence. “He’s sneaky. Has that effect on a lot of people, and we’re all probably better off because of it.”

Nate wordlessly pulls a dark, well-seasoned cast-iron skillet from the pile of things in the cart that Loghain has been forced to arrange himself around. He takes it over to the fire Stroud has started a few yards away and kneels down to assist him.

“ _He_ hates you, though,” the dwarf offers cheerfully, settling onto the edge of the cart as if he’s anticipating a nice long heart-to-heart.

“Yes. That has been rather obvious since I arrived.”

“Can’t blame him, really…” Temmerin takes an onion out of his pocket and begins peeling it. “...considering what you did to end up here.”

Loghain tries not to recoil so obviously when the dwarf unbuckles his chestplate and lays it down to use as a cutting board and begins chopping the onion with his dagger. And he stares in half belief as he produces a couple cloves of garlic from another pocket and minces those up as well. Just how much room does the dwarf have in his pockets?

When Temmerin finishes, he collects the chopped bits of onion and garlic in his tunic and takes them over to the fire, dropping them in the pan to an instant sizzle. He pulls a jar out of yet _another_ pocket and uses his dagger, again, to scoop out a hunk of something soft and light-colored and tosses it into the pan as well.

Loghain can’t stop himself from salivating at the sound and the smell of caramelizing onions and garlic as it finally drifts back to him. He watches the three of them in the low light of the fire wordlessly stirring the ingredients to keep them from burning, and then each of them takes a turn pulling their own bottles of ritewine out to pour into the pan to deglaze it before Stroud finally tosses the mushrooms in.

As he sits there in awe of the way they work seamlessly on this latest task, Loghain realizes, perhaps more than he ever did during his training at Montsimmard when they spit insults at him and called him “the twice-Traitorous dog lord,” that he has nothing to contribute here. Everyone already fits perfectly together somehow and he just doesn’t belong. They already know and understand each other, their bonds forged through shared experiences he can never hope to catch up with. 

And Loghain finds himself feeling lonely for the first time in a very long time. It’s not that he hasn’t been alone for years now. He has. And he’s done a very good job of convincing himself that he prefers it that way. After Maric disappeared, and Anora exercised her budding head-strong desire to distance herself from his counsel and his legacy, calling him off the search and sending him home to Gwaren, he only _really_ got to spend a few years with his wife before _she_ died, too. And since then, he’s been careful about putting too much energy into actually getting to know anyone. It certainly _seemed_ like the most logical way to go about things, especially when he’d still been able to fill the loneliness with his commitment to Ferelden -- yet _another_ thing the Hero of Ferelden has taken from him.

He shakes himself out of his ruminating when he realizes he’s no longer the one doing the watching. Three sets of eyes stare expectantly at him in the glow of the fire, like a single entity, and he gets some sense that he’s somehow supposed to know what they want. 

“ _What_?” he sneers. 

“Plates? Utensils? We’re not barbarians!” Temmerin huffs, and even the bronto seems to chuff its displeasure at Loghain’s lack of awareness. 

Stroud nods him toward one of the wooden crates in the cart, and Loghain drags himself over to it. He pries it open and, sure enough, there are four complete place settings’ worth of plates, bowls, and silverware. Temmerin stomps over, taking a stack of plates and a big serving spoon with him back to the fire and Loghain slides himself back to the edge of the cart, easing himself up onto his good leg, before grabbing some forks and hopping over to them.

Temmerin serves himself an impressively large heap of the mushrooms, while Nate shakes his head at the dwarf’s hopeful offer of a second spoonful.

“Is this going to kill me?” Loghain grouses, holding a plate out begrudgingly.

“It might make you see things,” Temmerin warns, before plopping a fairly generous helping onto his plate, leaving very little for Stroud. “But it also might help remove the stick from your arse.”

Stroud watches him closely as he begins to poke at the plate with his fork.

“Aren’t _you_ going to have any?” Loghain asks him while eyeing the other two suspiciously before taking his first few bites.

Temmerin is already licking his plate clean while Nate still appears to be carefully portioning his mushrooms out into quadrants. But he does look like he intends to eat them. Eventually. 

“ _Someone_ has to stay coherent.” 

“And you don’t assign that task to one of your lessers? Warden- _Sobreteur_ or something ridiculous?” 

“My... _lessers_?” Stroud smirks. 

“You know what I mean! Your...subordinates.”

“Oh. You mean, back there? That whole Warden-Surveyor thing?” 

“Yeah.” Loghain isn’t really sure which part of it he’s referring to, but he nods anyway. “That.” 

“I was just giving _you_ a hard time. We don’t think too much about rank out here. Everyone just kind of...does what we have to.” 

“Don’t tell your colleagues at Montsimmard that. They were all about rank and lording it over ‘new’ recruits.” 

“Yes, well…” Stroud stops himself from saying something and then takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “Half of them have never even been below the surface. Most of those in the Order who take up the ‘training’ mantle in Orlais don’t know the first thing about what it takes to survive down here.”

Loghain looks surprised to hear Stroud talking ill of anyone, but especially other Wardens and fellow countrymen. Not that he disagrees with the sentiment, of course. Quite to the contrary, he was less bothered by his ‘superior’ officers’ Orlesianness than he was with their obvious lack of actual combat experience. Most of them had been too young or otherwise sheltered from the conflicts between Orlais and Ferelden, and had not been invited to help intervene in the Fifth Blight until it was, for the most part, over, and yet he was forced to endure nearly a year of ‘training’ with them as punishment before being transferred to Stroud’s command, a move they surely saw as further punishment. He’d have preferred to learn from the cutpurses and seasoned criminals the Order recruited in more desperate times and sent below the surface or directly against the Horde. He hadn’t even thought to ask what Stroud had done to have been sent east as ‘punishment.’ He hardly seemed the type.

“I hope you don’t think I was pulling rank on you when we...?” Stroud asks.

“No. That was _my_ idea, if I recall...”

“Good.”

“Hmmm...yes.” Loghain purses his lips. “So...why aren’t _you_ at Montsimmard, enjoying the easy life with the other Orlesian Wardens?”

“I -- ” He hesitates, and his eyes drift downward. “I do not harbor much fondness for my homeland.”

“Oh?” Loghain tries to hide his delight at this concession.

“Whatever vain nostalgia I might have entertained for my past life as a chevalier will be forever tainted by The Game.” 

Loghain sees something resembling bitterness in his face for the first time since they’ve met, he thinks, and as Stroud’s furrowed brow smooths into sadness, he suddenly regrets pressing him on the matter. 

“I prefer to stay as far away from all of... _that_ as I can,” he sighs. “Geographically _and_ politically.”

Loghain spears another few mushrooms with the tines of his fork and shoves them into his mouth to keep himself from asking any further questions. They really are surprisingly good for having been prepared with ingredients from the dwarf’s sweaty pockets and some combination of their blighted mystery whiskey.

“Feeling anything yet?” Stroud asks, looking back up at him.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, try to relax into it.” He smirks. “It usually goes better that way.” 

“So I’ve _heard_ …” Loghain drawls, before shoving another forkful into his mouth, licking the sauce from his lips. It occurs to him that he’s done this far more salaciously than he had intended to as he watches Stroud’s eyes follow the path of his tongue over his lips in slow-motion. Or maybe he _is_ beginning to feel something.

He sees Stroud’s mustache wiggling before he realizes he’s talking, and the sound of his voice, his ridiculous accent, spreads around and gets stuck like warm molasses in his ears. 

“And once...done…” Loghain isn’t able to keep up with the words, and the more he tries to concentrate on them, the harder it is to keep his eyes off the mustache, until “...should still be able to reach the Keep by morning…” slams suddenly into his brain and he nods in acknowledgment, as if it’s even possible to know what time of day it is.

Loghain continues nodding, long after Stroud has finished speaking and is now just watching him in amusement as his head bobs up and down and he tries to guide another bite of mushrooms into his mouth.

“How does it work…?” he asks, staring at his fork in sudden consternation.

“The fork?”

“No…” Though Loghain _is_ suddenly struck by the fact that he doesn’t recall ever actually considering the functionality of his cutlery before.

“Hrm? The mushrooms, then? Natural hallucinogenic properties...mild when prepared like this...should wear off in a few hours.”

Loghain shakes his head. “I mean...the three of you...and the others...you seem to just...without saying anything. How...?”

He tries to scoop the rest of the mushrooms onto his fork unsuccessfully because the fork won’t stop bending out of the way, and he notices Temmerin laughing at him from across the fire, and he’s not sure how long he’s been at it, but it feels like maybe it’s been forever. He has to work hard to force his face into a scowl as he grabs the last few delicious bites with his fingers and shoves them into his mouth.

“You have to listen, and stop being such a fucking cunt all the time,” Nate mutters. Loghain had forgotten _he_ was even still there.

Temmerin is still laughing, and will probably keep laughing for all of eternity, he thinks. He closes his eyes and tries to listen, tries to hear the so-called ‘song’ of their tainted blood, but all he hears is Temmerin’s deep rumbling laughter warping and swelling and weaving its way through his brain.

“I’ve been told I am a _terrible_ listener…” he hums with a sort of languorous pride. By Anora. By Maric and Rowan and...well, Celia never _said_ it, but Maker bless her, she certainly always went to great lengths to make sure he _was_ listening.

“We _know_ ,” Nate blurts out as Temmerin topples over backwards, still guffawing like a madman. 

The dwarf’s laughter echoes around in the caverns and twists into something else -- whispers of something he can’t quite _hear_ , but he _thinks_ he can feel it, thrumming through his veins.

Loghain tries to stand up, for reasons he doesn’t fully understand. But he feels suddenly compelled to seek the darkness beyond the reach of their fire, to follow the melting whispers and echoes to their final destination and join them.

Stroud reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder before he can actually get to his feet. “ _That’s_ not the song you want to be listening to, Old Man. Not yet, anyway.”

He growls something low beyond words as he tries to shake him off, but Stroud’s hand squeezes tighter, his fingertips digging into his collarbone as he tries to rise again. The other two are staring at him now, too, and Temmerin has stopped laughing and righted himself, and he feels more than just Stroud holding him back. It’s like a yoke over his neck, connecting him to the others, and he hates it. Wants to throw it off of him. Wants to get up and run now just for the sake of being apart from all of it. But it holds him there, sticky like tar and heavy like an anchor in his chest.

“It takes time, but you’ll learn to hear _us_ , too,” he thinks he hears Stroud say, but it only blurs and melts into the other whispers before he feels everything collapsing on top of him.

Loghain feels like he’s suffocating all over again. Not on chokedamp, but on the realization that this is how he’ll spend his last days, weeks, years -- _Maker,_ don’t let it be _years_! Broken and battered and at the mercy of a ragtag group of disappointing cave-dwellers who can read his thoughts.

“It’s not _that_ bad…” Temmerin mutters, sounding a bit hurt through the swirl of choking whispers.

Nate rolls his eyes and eats a section of his carefully-portioned mushrooms, then sets his plate aside. He leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him and looping his fingers behind his head with a strange half-smirk as he closes his eyes.

Stroud finally releases Loghain’s shoulder, and he remembers that he _can_ , in fact, breathe.

“Alright?” he asks him, his hand sliding slowly, warmly down his back.

A couple shuddering breaths later to clear the feeling of collapse from his lungs, and the panicked need to escape has at least passed, and he’s back to just imagining everything is molasses, including Stroud’s hand as it lingers behind him, rubbing and patting him as if this is just a _thing_ people _do_. 

Loghain nods. _Almost_ gratefully. “I’m not sure if I should be thanking you or cursing you.”

Stroud laughs, and this somehow cuts through the slow stickiness of everything. “Why not both?”


	4. Surface

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain wakes up to the surface, and bears. And meets some more members of his new Warden unit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: descriptions of animal death, and some harsh magical bone repair

At some point, Loghain passes out in a slow-motion mushroom-induced haze. He doesn’t wake up again until they're above the surface and the sun is shining too bright and the road is too bumpy and everything is moving past him way too fast. Trees and birds and clouds and all of these things he hasn’t seen for weeks swim back into his consciousness all at once, and _Maker_ , he’s thirsty.

“Water…?” he manages to croak. And someone wordlessly hands him a canteen. Once he’s nearly emptied it, he glances over to see who is lying next to him. “Howe.” It’s as close to a thank you as he’s physically capable of at the moment.

Nate nods just as tersely back at him, and then closes his eyes, readjusting the stack of burlap he’s using as a headrest as he soaks up the cursed rays of sunshine streaming through the breaks in the trees overhead.

Loghain’s head is pounding. Figures, since he’s apparently been using a wooden crate as a pillow and his jaw is set so tight he thinks it's a wonder he hasn't ground his teeth to powder in his sleep. He remembers the fire, the mushrooms, and Stroud rubbing circles into his back while everything melted into whispers and echoes around him. How did he even get back into the bloody cart?

“We threw you in there after you passed out on Stroud’s shoulder!” Temmerin shouts back at him. Too loud. Too bright. _Always_ far too cheerful. “He’d probably have let you drool on him all night, but we had to get moving again. Baby was getting restless, weren’t ya, girl?” He pats the bronto’s front haunches and the creature chuffs agreeably back at him.

Loghain sees Nate’s face twitch with amusement as he continues pretending to nap.

“Where is he?” Loghain demands.

“Probably taking a piss…” Temmerin waves his hand toward the woods. “He’ll catch up. Likes to take a bit of time to himself when we get top-side.” The dwarf turns, wriggling his big bushy eyebrows at him.

The cart _is_ moving slightly slower than a brisk walking pace, and he has faith in the Warden-Commander’s ability to defend himself against the usual threats of the wilderness and find his way back to them, but Loghain can’t help but feel uneasy about his absence. If they are heading toward Vigil’s Keep along the Hafter, as he suspects, then there are most definitely bears. And Loghain has lost enough soldiers to the bears here to know that it’s no place to go wandering off alone.

“How long has he been gone?” 

“What are you worried about, Old Man?” Nate asks, without opening his eyes. 

“Don’t call me that,” Loghain sneers at him anyway. “Now tell me...how _long_?” 

Nate finally sits up with an exasperated sigh. “You think Stroud can’t handle a bear by himself?” 

“Well, since _you_ spent your formative years north of the Waking Sea...and _this one_ lived below the Surface most of his life…” He gestures up at Temmerin who nods in acknowledgment. “And Stroud is from Orlais -- ” 

“Then we couldn’t _possibly_ have heard of bears?” 

“These aren’t just any bears!” 

“What’ll it take to get you to shut up about them?” Nate yawns, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. 

“Well, if _I_ had both legs in working order…” 

“So you want one of _us_ to go look for him? The man just wanted a little peace and quiet.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine, then! What would _I_ know?” 

Nate narrows his eyes on Loghain’s scowling face and the two sit staring at each other in tense animosity for several moments. Nate is the first to break as he takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly. “Not like other bears _how_?” 

“They are more intelligent, for one. They seem to work in teams," Loghain offers, hesitating now that he can hear himself. "There’s usually one of them sort of in charge, and they stick together, in groups of...four? Sometimes five?” 

Temmerin has turned around and is listening with interest now while Nate raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“Look! If you don’t believe me…” 

“No, _you’re_ the expert on Ferelden, _Old Man_.” 

“I _said_ don’t call me that!” 

Nate grabs his bow and quiver and leaps off the edge of the cart with more energy and liveliness than he’s displayed throughout this entire little adventure. “I’ll let the bears know you said hello,” he hollers as he disappears between the trees. 

Temmerin laughs. “You know it’s funny, cuz Stroud’s kind of a…” 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Loghain snaps, and for once, thank the Maker, the dwarf exercises enough self-control to stop himself.

…

Stroud senses his approach before he sees him. Howe _is_ one of the stealthiest of the group, a skillset honed by sneaking out past curfew from Ser Rodolphe’s estate in his younger years, no doubt. But he certainly thinks and feels things loudly enough, especially when he’s disgruntled like he is now, and even though it’s harder to hear up here, with so many other sights and sounds and smells to sort through, his brash, twangy, discordant song makes him easy to locate.

“What is it?” Stroud asks, with no hint of irritation, though Nate knows better. It’s not a secret that the Warden-Commander values his private time.

He appears through the trees, shaking his head apologetically. “The Old Man was worried you might run into some bears out here and need someone to rescue you.”

“I see.” Stroud runs his fingers through one side of his mustache. “Well, that was considerate of him, I suppose.”

Nate smirks. “He says they work in _teams_ around here, and are more intelligent than the average _Orlesian_ bear.”

“Oh, no wonder he’s worried, then.” Stroud’s eyes are twinkling with amusement now.

“I know it’s none of my business, but…”

“He’s one of us now. And he brings experience and skills that can be of use to us, however little _some_ of us may enjoy that fact.”

“That’s not what I --”

“My own personal feelings on the matter will not interfere with my command, if that’s your concern?”

“No.” Nate shakes his head, smiling. “Never. I just think you could do a whole lot better than that old wrinkly bastard is all.”

Stroud tries not to grin back at him, but ends up just looking hopelessly guilty.

“I _see_ …” Nate hums.

Stroud clears his throat. “Should we get back to them, then? I mean, considering there are these _formidably_ clever Fereldan bears roving these woods?”

"I suppose we should."

...

Loghain realizes, too late, of course, that by sending Nate after Stroud, he’s left himself completely under the protection of the dwarf.

“Whooooah…” he hears Temmerin whisper to the bronto, a hint of wariness in his voice, and as the cart creaks to a stop, Loghain sits up to try and get a view of the river ahead of them. To his dismay, he can just barely make out three dark hulking forms silhouetted against the bright reflective rapids about a hundred and fifty yards ahead.

“Shit,” Loghain hisses. _Bears, of course_. “Stay still.” At least there are only three of them, and there's still a small chance they could turn into the woods and detour around them while they remain preoccupied with the leaping fish they appear to be snatching out of the river.

Temmerin obliges, but the bronto begins snorting and huffing as soon as she spots the bears.

“Get that beast under control!”

This doesn’t seem to do anything but encourage her hissy fit, and Temmerin gets a worrisome glimmer in his eyes as he leans forward over her haunches, whispering, “You think you can handle ‘em, girl?” into the bronto’s ear.

“Don’t be a fucking _idiot_!”

The bronto seems to take this as a challenge, and stamps her feet, jostling Loghain back away from them to the other end of the cart. Temmerin hops down, and begins unfastening her harness as she hops impatiently. 

“Help me out on your side, Mac Tir!”

“This is insane. There are three of them!”

“Have you ever seen a bronto charge?”

“No. But that’s _hardly_ …” There’s no more time to argue. The bears have noticed them now with all the commotion and are splashing curiously toward them through the rapids, their eyes set on a much bigger feast than the fish. If nothing else, the feral bronto might at least serve as a distraction while they flee into the cover of the trees.

“Give her a chance!”

Loghain groans, but he supposes he doesn’t really have much of a choice. He reaches over and slides the other strap of the harness off the cart and “Baby” the bronto rears back on her hind legs before launching herself forward toward the approaching bears who, in the meantime, have picked up their pace to a lumbering charge of their own.

She takes the closest one out immediately, slamming into it head-on and it falls into the river. It’s clear that the _bears_ have never seen a bronto charge, either. But they seem to learn quickly enough. The other two veer off to either side of her as she shakes off the impact and continues her charge straight past both of them. The bears turn around in pursuit as the bronto skids to a halt and looks suddenly lost and confused.

“They’re strategizing…” Loghain mutters as Temmerin watches, holding his breath. "We should make a run for it.”

Temmerin turns to him and looks horrified at the implication. "We're not _leaving_ her!"

"Oh for fuck's sake…"

The bears begin to take turns swiping at the bronto’s hindquarters experimentally, almost playfully, and she finally realizes where her targets have gone. She flings herself around, kicking her stumpy back legs frantically into the chest of one of them. Then she swings her head with its fearsome horns from side to side to clear them away from her as she backs up and rises up on her hind legs again, preparing for another charge.

They circle back around behind her and away from her horns, and Temmerin grabs his axe and runs toward them, shouting Maker-knows-what while Loghain is left watching helplessly from the cart. With all the commotion, none of them notice that two other bears have emerged from the woods on the opposite bank behind them, slowly stalking toward the cart.

Temmerin swings his axe over his head into the back of one of the bears, and it turns on him, roaring ferociously before it swipes its deadly claws across his chest, leaving deep gashes in his plate armor. Temmerin looks unperturbed as he swings his axe again, this time at the creature’s shoulder with a sickening crack. It makes an ungodly sort of yowling noise, falling away from him before retreating back toward the river, dragging its front leg limply along with it.

Meanwhile, Baby has managed to stick the other bear in the side with one of her horns and is trying to fling it off of her before it can get another swipe at her back. The bronto squeals when the bear sinks its teeth into her instead, finally piercing the tough hide with its powerful jaws.

Temmerin spins around, axe-swinging with him, and seems to have gone into a furious rage at the sound of the bronto’s cry. All Loghain can really make out from his vantage point is a mess of fur and blood and snarls as Temmerin starts hacking away at it. He and Baby make short work of the offending creature and Loghain almost feels sorry for the bear as it finally gets flung free from her horns into the air, then cleaved nearly all the way through its middle with another full swing of the dwarf’s axe, and finally put out of its misery with a skull-cracking stomp to the head.

He’s beginning to feel foolish for doubting them, and hoping the only other conscious one will give up and leave to nurse its wounds, when he hears a splash behind him. 

He whips his head around and finally notices the other two, a mere 20 feet from him now, climbing up the river bank toward him. He frantically scoots himself toward his weapon as the bears circle the cart, licking their snouts in anticipation. He’s the weak, wounded one, after all. He can’t blame them for wanting an easy meal.

He raises his sword and his shield, knowing full well he’s done for, since Temmerin is still too far away to intervene and he doubts the bronto has much left in her to charge after that nasty bite, but he’ll be damned if he can’t get a few good jabs at them in the process of being torn apart and eaten.

He hears them roar at each other, as if they’re bickering already over who will get the best parts of him, and the injured bear roars an answer from further up the river, as if to stake his claim, too. The one on Loghain's right side roars the loudest, right into his ear, and everything else in the world seems to go silent in acquiescence. She saunters up to him, placing one paw on the edge of the cart, and tilting it toward her. Loghain digs in the heel of his unbroken leg to prevent himself from sliding directly into the creature’s mouth and braces for the attack.

But then there’s shouting from the woods, and the other bear is hit with an arrow, and turns its attention away from him in the direction it came from. He sees an axe whiz past, much smaller than Temmerin’s, and he hears the yelp of another bear, the one Temmerin injured perhaps, not far off. A sudden and inexplicable wave washes the unconscious bear past him down the river, but the last bear remains with him, seemingly unmoved by any of this.

He locks eyes with it as it clambers up onto the cart, then tries to thrust his sword forward from his seated position, but it raises a paw and swats it away as if it were a toy. He swears he sees the thing smile at him. Like it knows who he is, what he’s done, and it’s come seeking justice, finally, for all his crimes against Ferelden. Loghain doesn’t believe in reincarnation, but if he did, he’d swear the thing had Queen Rowan’s eyes.

The bear rears up and raises its other paw, but it never quite gets to swipe its huge menacing claws at him again before a sword comes slicing through its throat from behind. The bear sways as blood gushes from the wound and its head lolls to the side. Loghain has to scramble to get out of its way to avoid being crushed under the weight of the thing as it collapses in front of him, but when he looks back up, he sees Stroud standing there looking every bit the part of some kind of savior in shining silverite.

“Well, I guess we’re even now,” Loghain mutters, once he has recovered and caught his breath. 

“ _Hardly_!” Stroud laughs. He pulls his sword from the back of the creature’s thick neck and flicks the blood off before quickly resheathing it. “By my count, you still owe me.” 

Loghain raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t ask for any clarification, as the rest of their rescuers reveal themselves, starting with Howe, who emerges from the woods behind Stroud looking as smug as ever when he bends down to pull an arrow out of the other bear’s eye socket. “Found Stroud. And looks like the bears found you?” 

“Look at them all!” A small dwarf, her face covered in dark geometric tattoos, shouts with glee as she goes splashing into the water and yanks a couple of throwing axes out of the bear that had been injured, but is now quite thoroughly or at least very close to dead judging by the bright crimson color of the river flowing away from its carcass.

“Was it necessary to kill them _all_?” An elven woman carrying a twisted wooden staff strides toward them from the opposite bank as she effortlessly rearranges the river into stepping stones to accommodate the path of her feet. She arrives completely dry and looks Loghain over, her glance drifting over his splinted leg and back up to his face, making no effort to hide her disapproval. “And _this_ is who Orlais sends?”

“Sigrun!” Stroud jumps off the cart and halfway into the river, grasping the dwarven woman’s thick forearm to help her back up the bank, while nodding graciously toward the elf. “And Velanna." She nods back. "Thank you for the assistance! Allow me to introduce you both to Warden Loghain Mac Tir, our new transfer from Montsimmard.”

“Mac Tir?” Sigrun makes a face. “The Queen’s traitorous father?"

"The very same!" Temmerin laughs as he bends over, resting his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. 

The furious warrior he had been just a moment ago is gone, and all that remains is the obnoxiously cheerful dwarf who takes great delight in blowing things up and has pockets full of groceries. Baby has come limping back to the cart with him, nuzzling pitiably against his side, and Temmerin quickly busies himself with washing out her bite wound with water from his canteen and rubbing it with some kind of yellow sticky salve he pulls from his pocket, all the while cooing at her about how brave she is and what a good job she did against the bears in _spite_ of Loghain’s doubts.

Sigrun tilts her head curiously as she looks at Loghain, though her gaze lacks the obvious disdain that the elf-witch has been eyeing him with since before she even heard his name. “Thought you were meant to be exiled out west?”

Loghain glances toward Stroud. “Seems the _Orlesians_ saw fit to send me back here as punishment.”

“Perhaps they were also seeking to punish _us_ …” Nate murmurs and Temmerin snorts.

“Does Solona know about this?” Velanna asks Stroud. “And what about the King and Queen?”

Loghain rolls his eyes. “I thought the Wardens were meant to be _above_ politics?”

Stroud clears his throat. “Warden-Commander Amell will be apprised of the situation as soon as anyone can _find_ her to relay the message.” He eyes Loghain. “And the Throne of Ferelden holds no authority over the Order.”

“I never thought I could miss Anders...” Velanna sighs. “But this _hardly_ seems a suitable replacement...for either him _or_ Justice."

It’s the first anyone has mentioned the two Wardens he’s meant to be replacing, and Loghain can’t really disagree with her, though he knows virtually nothing about either of them. Regardless of their aptitudes or the conditions of their disappearances, he can’t even defend himself against a bear in his current state!

"Could you at least heal his leg, so he'll stop feeling sorry for himself?" Nate asks.

Velanna nods, tearing the splint and his pant leg roughly away with a sneer and another disapproving look toward Stroud. Everyone seems to take a deep breath as she lays her hands on his busted leg, which by now has turned a whole rainbow of sickly greens and purples. If she were a surgeon, he's almost certain she'd have advised him to amputate it.

But lucky for him, or not, she's a mage. Loghain grits his teeth, determined not to give her or any of the others the satisfaction of a humbling whimper or yelp of discomfort. Until he feels her magic -- harsh and acerbic and... _green_ , is the only other way he can think to describe it before it starts to feel like thorns are suddenly growing excruciatingly from inside his leg as she seeks out and begins to try and reconnect the shards of bone. 

He screams. Stroud squeezes his shoulder, but he doesn’t feel it. All he can feel is the witch's cruel torturous ‘healing,’ like she's pruning back the shattered bits of bone and sinew and regrowing it all back anew. The pain is blinding, it's too much to have to feel your body rebuild itself all at once like this without any whiskey or elfroot to smoke, and he passes out against Stroud. _Again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I keep saying this'll be the last chapter of this one. I really thought this would be. But I've got one more scene (and a little more hanky panky) I want to finish up between these two when Loghain wakes up. _AGAIN._


	5. Vigil's Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain settles in. A little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most definitely NSFW...oral sex and some hints at some eventual anal toward the end there (sidenote: "eventual anal" is something I don't think I've ever typed before!)

Once Velanna has finished repairing Loghain’s leg, she looks up, nodding weakly but affirmatively at Stroud who has been watching the entire process with more than his usual level of concern for his Wardens. He starts to try to jostle Loghain back awake, but Velanna shakes her head at him.

“He’ll come back in a minute or two,” she says. “But he’ll probably be sore.”

“Couldn’t you have done anything for the pain?”

She musters enough strength to glare at him, then. “No.” She is no healer, with no innate gift for summoning spirits to aid her in it like their wayward apostate, not that she’s ever claimed to be. But limbs grow and shatter like tree branches, don’t they? And the flesh and vasculature of all living things certainly share at least _some_ features in common.

Sigrun coaxes her to sit down on the ground and begins massaging her shoulders and arms. She stretches her hands out in front of her and bends and flexes her fingers, and over the pops and cracks in her joints, stiff from such intense, sustained magic, her glare on him softens a little.

“I couldn’t repair everything perfectly, but the break is mended and I was able to remove most of the dead tissue so his body should be able to heal the rest of the way on its own.”

“Perhaps a potion or two wouldn’t hurt, either?” Sigrun offers, handing him a small red vial from her belt.

Velanna nods at the suggestion as she pulls a blue one from her own pouch and gulps it down.

“Thank you.” Stroud nods back appreciatively at both of them, and then dribbles the red liquid into Loghain’s mouth, which is hanging open indelicately at his shoulder now.

Velanna raises an eyebrow at him. “Should I even ask why you all were travelling back through the Deep Roads without any? That break should never have been left so long without anything but a splint to stabilize it.”

Temmerin laughs, and Nate’s eyes dart over to the dwarf with a treasonous look.

Stroud clears his throat, preparing some kind of explanation on their behalf, but Velanna holds up her hand. “Nevermind...I do not wish to know.”

Loghain does, eventually, regain consciousness, in a fit of hissing and cussing and flailing that most of them seem to find quite amusing, Stroud included, and they finish loading up the cart with the impressive pelts of the bears that they’ve slain. Sigrun pulls the teeth from the bear _she_ felled and offers to make a necklace out of its claws for Velanna, who only glowers at her. “We wouldn’t want any of it to go to waste!” she says, in her defense, and the elf rolls her eyes and begrudgingly concedes to the gift.

...

They arrive at Vigil’s Keep later that afternoon without further incident, and Stroud asks Garevel to see to Loghain’s accommodations while he attends to other matters related to his command over the Warden outpost. There are ambassadors to meet with, and reports to read and send and respond to, some orders from the First Warden about exploring an ancient thaig to the north, and a reported sighting of someone matching Anders’ description across the sea in Kirkwall to mull over, and other Wardens and soldiers to check in with. Mistress Woolsey brings him his dinner herself, insisting on sharing her ideas with him about establishing a larger, more public Warden presence in Denerim as part of some goodwill campaign to capitalize on the King’s status as a member of the Order. Stroud tries to hear and acknowledge her suggestions without eyeing his food too obviously, but considering who he’s just brought back from Orlais, he is admittedly not very enthusiastic about reaching out to the King or Queen. Especially without Solona there to smooth things over.

To his relief, Woolsey backs down more easily than usual. He hopes it’s not on his account, as he probably appears a bit preoccupied, but he won’t deny that he appreciates it. She assures him there’s no rush, “just something to think about,” and they bid each other their usual polite evening farewells.

He breathes a sigh of relief, and is grateful for a few quiet moments alone in his office with his food, which is still, thankfully, a little bit warm, before a loud knock comes banging on the door, and he’s brow-beaten into sharing an evening pint in the mess hall with Nate and Temmerin and his cousins, whose numbers seem to have increased while they were gone.

He excuses himself from their company after finishing his ale, only slightly inebriated, and decides to check in on the newest resident of Vigil’s Keep before heading to bed. It’s late, and he doesn’t _imagine_ Loghain has had any difficulty settling into his quarters, though he’s almost certain he’ll have come up with _something_ to complain about.

He finds his door slightly ajar, and as he peers in, he sees him hunched over with a simple wool shawl wrapped around his shoulders, reading over something at the desk in the corner, his recently-mended leg propped awkwardly up on an old wooden crate. Stroud feels something clench in his chest at the sight of the man -- once so revered, feared, and eventually hated by so many -- now looking so small and ordinary.

Loghain finally turns when he hears him clear his throat. His face lights up ever-so-slightly at the sight of him before he quickly resettles it into its usual scowl.

“Come in,” he grunts, trying not to sound the least bit happy to see him.

But Stroud just stands there in his doorway, beaming at him from under that ridiculous mustache, making everything start to feel impossibly soft and strange. 

It is not the first time they’ve seen each other out of their Warden armor, but making camp with multiple others and hastily settling into one’s bedroll in the Deep Roads hardly gives one an opportunity to appreciate what lies beneath the clunky silverite and blue. And in spite of his comically-forced scowl, Loghain can’t seem to stop himself from admiring Stroud's physique, which is on full display under a simple tightly-fitted tunic and woolen breeches.

It doesn’t help Loghain any that Stroud’s quite fit for a man his age, an unmistakably sturdy V-shaped torso atop well-muscled legs, with broad shoulders and strong, defined arms. He’s never quite realized just how chiseled and square his jaw is, either. And as his eyes rove over his face, he tries not to stare too longingly at his lips, which he’s already been acquainted with, though it feels like it’s been ages since that cave-in, and he certainly wouldn’t mind getting _re-_ acquainted. With _any_ part of him, really.

“How’s your leg?” Stroud asks, looking on the verge of laughter at the way he’s so obviously ogling him, practically drooling like a mabari. 

Loghain _would_ be embarrassed, except that his lecherous staring certainly hasn't seemed to dampen Stroud’s incessantly cheerful mood. In fact, it actually seems to have had the opposite effect.

Loghain moves his leg off the crate with another grimace, and stands up from the desk to try and prove himself fit for... _something._ “Sore, but back together somehow, if I’m to trust the witch’s magic.”

“It’s never proven false before. Though I suppose she _could_ make an exception just for _you_.”

Loghain doesn’t find this particularly amusing, but it doesn’t do anything to wipe the slightly drunken grin off his Commander’s face.

“Did you need something?” Loghain finally asks when the awkwardly good-natured silence that settles between them becomes too much for him to bear. He doesn’t have a clue how to proceed when death does not feel like an immediate and inescapable inevitability.

Stroud shakes his head. “Just checking in on my new Warden-Surveyor. Do _you_ need anything? Another healing potion? Elfroot, maybe, for the pain or to help you sleep? We’re well-supplied up here.”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“Pickled eggs, then? I know how you _Fereldans_ love them.’

Loghain just glares at him.

“I see…” Stroud’s eyes twinkle back at him. “Still being a stubborn ass?”

“Maybe.” Loghain tries to hide the wry grin threatening to finally break through his habitual sneer.

“Alright, then. Feel free to grumble at Garevel if you think of anything.” Stroud turns to leave, giving Loghain plenty of opportunity to appreciate his backside now, as well. 

Which he does. Shamelessly. He’s so busy admiring his ass, in fact, that he actually _almost_ lets him leave.

“Wait!” Loghain cries out, and Stroud spins around, looking victorious.

“Changed your mind about the elfroot, eh?” he winks at him. “Or was it the eggs?”

“Fine. Whatever.” Loghain waves his hand. “I just want to... _clarify_ something,” he huffs, taking a few tentative steps toward him.

“What is it?”

“Have you ever -- I mean, _do_ you have anything…with anyone else here?”

“Ah. This...”

Loghain feels a sudden rush of embarrassment for asking, for feeling the need to inquire at all about his personal affairs, and he freezes halfway across the room to him. “ _This_?”

“Yes! Oh, I don’t mean -- I was certainly _hoping_ we might talk about…” he sighs, and Loghain can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment or if Stroud is just as bad at this as he is. 

Stroud shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “When I took over command here, most of the others had already settled into their own patterns and arrangements with each other, and I did not wish to upset anything more than my unwelcome arrival already had. Their loyalty was to the one who had saved Ferelden from the Blight and the talking Darkspawn that followed, to _their_ Warden-Commander…” Stroud trails off, glancing apologetically at him.

“Yes, yes...I am well aware of Solona Amell’s _many_ heroic accomplishments,” Loghain grumbles impatiently. “You haven’t answered my question, though.”

“Right.” Stroud nods. “So, I guess I never really entertained any thoughts of...well, anyway, it hardly seemed appropriate for me to seek out _that_ kind of companionship among my -- what did you call them? My ‘lessers’?” 

Loghain rolls his eyes. “Okay, but _do_ you want someone? For _that_?”

“I _thought_ I was content with things as they were.” Stroud chuckles. “But then, of course, _you_ show up, all grizzled and miserable...”

“Oh, I’m so _sorry_.”

“You are definitely _not_ what I expected from Montsimmard, not what _anyone_ expected, I imagine.” Stroud smiles sheepishly at him. “And I suppose I _do_ have a type.” 

“And I’m _that_? Your type?” 

“What did Howe call you the other night? A ‘fucking cunt?’” 

“ _Did_ he?” Loghain tries to look offended or at least a little appalled, but only ends up smiling ruefully back at him. It’s not like he can really argue with that.

“Well, I guess that’s my type.” Stroud looks away from him, to the empty corner of the little room, and it’s the first time Loghain has seen the man blush, he thinks. “And what about you?”

“I don’t have a _type_ ,” Loghain scoffs. 

Stroud does something between a choke and a laugh. “I _see_. That’s not exactly what I -- ” 

“But if I _did_ …” 

“Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

In the low light of the lamp, from this distance, Loghain can’t really tell if it’s teasing or desperation he sees blinking back at him in Stroud’s warm grey-brown eyes. He _could_ take a few steps closer, just to see, and to better appreciate the rosy glow he’s pretty sure is now spreading across his cheeks, but his legs just don’t seem to want to move.

“Maybe?” he blurts out. “If that’s something you’d be amenable to? Keeping in mind that I _am_ , technically, still your subordinate.”

“I can be _amenable_ to a lot of things,” Stroud laughs. The sound of it sends a shock of energy through Loghain’s stuttering heart and his faltering limbs that forces him forward to close the distance between them. 

This burst of confidence is no less impatient than the last time, when he was certain the end awaited them within a matter of minutes. He backs Stroud up toward his bed, pressing his lips hard against his mouth and he reaches for the lacings on his breeches. Stroud grabs onto his shoulders to steady himself when the back of his legs bump against the wooden bedframe. He chuckles, and Loghain glowers at him. But Stroud draws him down into a deep, sumptuous kiss, and presses his thigh up between his legs, before falling back onto the mattress and pulling him down on top of him.

“Bloody flames!” Loghain stiffens up and pushes away from him just as suddenly as he’d come crashing over to him a moment earlier. “I -- ” He stares wide-eyed down at him, and at his half-undone breeches and the impressive bulge between his legs.

“What is it? Your leg?”

“No!” He scowls. “I mean, _yes_ , but fuck my _leg_...”

Stroud glances down at his leg with a mildly quizzical look, and raises an eyebrow.

“ _Don’t_...at least not -- I just…” Loghain grunts in frustration. “I’m a bit out of practice at _this_ sort of thing.”

Stroud sits up, mercifully, giving Loghain something besides his cock to stare at, and smiles. “So am I, if that is something you are worried about.” He reaches for his hand, tugging it gently out of the fist it’s been balled up into at his side.

“I’m not _worried..._ ” Loghain stares down at his hand as it twitches fretfully in Stroud’s grasp. “I just don’t know how this is supposed to _work_.”

“How do you _want_ it to work?” Stroud pushes his warm, thick fingers in between his bony knuckles, spreading his fingers wide, and squeezes, forcing the rest of the tension out of his hand. “We certainly don’t need to rush into anything.”

Loghain doesn’t know _how_ \-- he just knows he wants _him_. “Well, I’ve never been with another -- a fellow _soldier_.” He grimaces. Might as well make this as awkward as possible now that he’s ruined the moment with his indecisiveness. “Not that I think there’s anything wrong with it. Or that I haven’t _thought_ about it.” 

He has. He most definitely has. Though Maric, the most frequent object of such thoughts, could have hardly been considered much of a soldier. An idiot. An inspiration. A gloriously handsome fool. But he is trying desperately not to think of all of that now. Trying not to think of all those years he’d wasted longing for what he couldn’t have because it somehow went against the ‘greater good of Ferelden’ or whatever dutiful bullshit he told himself, then the years he spent searching fruitlessly for him, and cursing his name when he disappeared on another idiotic hero’s journey without him there to look after him...of all his unspoken regrets and then missing out on the opportunity to appreciate what he already had waiting for him back home in Gwaren.

Stroud squeezes his hand again, bringing him back to the present.

“There were things I used to think were more important than companionship,” Loghain murmurs as he slumps down onto the bed beside him, defeated. “I suppose all of those sorts of things are beyond my purview now, aren’t they?” 

“Yes, well...you are not alone in that here. Every one of us has had to let _something_ go.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind next time Howe or the elf-witch decide to take turns insulting my character or fitness to serve.”

“ _Careful_ …” Stroud places his hand firmly on Loghain’s thigh, just above the knee, and squeezes that, too. “You might actually arrive at some kind of mutual understanding with one of them.”

“I find _that_ doubtful!”

Stroud chuckles and Loghain lifts his knee a little, nudging his hand further up his leg as he turns and leans in for another kiss.

This time it’s softer, sweeter, less desperate. Stroud moves his hand up and around to the back of his neck and pulls him in even closer against him. He’s so warm. And solid. And when, in spite of all the strength and heat he possesses, he kisses Loghain delicately on the chin, and then drags his lips gently down his jaw to his neck, Loghain can’t help but shudder under the tenderness of all of it.

“Alright, Mac Tir?”

“ _Yes_ …” he grumbles, searching frantically for an explanation for his trembling, anything but the truth that _this_ kind of affection feels impossible and undeserved and like he might just fall to pieces. “It’s just your ridiculous mustache.”

“Oh? Should I get rid of it?”

“No,” he mutters, even as he feels it bristling against his skin and imagines Stroud’s maddening grin underneath it.

Stroud slowly pulls the shawl off his shoulders and nudges the edge of his tunic to the side with his chin, and then presses his lips against his collarbone, eliciting a low, throaty growl from Loghain. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take. 

So he shoves his hand impatiently down the front of Stroud’s pants and is pleased by the surprised little gasp he makes.

“I want to repay the favor,” Loghain says. “So that we’ll be even.”

“ _Then_ what?” Stroud murmurs ponderously against his shoulder as Loghain wraps his hand around him.

“Then...” He strokes him up over the top of his shaft and he feels Stroud’s teeth graze his skin as he inhales sharply against him. “I...” He slides his fist back down to the base and Stroud whimpers. “I don’t _know_ ,” Loghain hisses impatiently. “We can do whatever _you_ want.”

Stroud nods, releasing the grip he has on Loghain’s shoulder and thigh, and Loghain pushes him back onto the bed. He kneels on the floor between his legs and quickly finishes unlacing his pants and slides them down off his hips, over his thighs. Unlike before, when clothing and armor were shoved hastily aside in the suffocating darkness, he actually gets an opportunity to appreciate the fact that Stroud’s thighs are just as thick and beautiful and muscular as the rest of him.

But it’s hard to keep from staring at his cock once it’s been sprung free right in front of him.

He licks his lips, as he strokes him up and down again, appreciating the way Stroud rolls his hips and the encouraging groans that he gets in response. Stroud reaches for him, but Loghain swats him away as he licks up and down both sides of his shaft before closing his lips around him and swirling his tongue over the head of his cock.

Stroud moans and mumbles something utterly incoherent as Loghain tastes him and takes just a moment to breathe him in.

“Mac Tir...” he manages to rasp. “ _Loghain_ …”

He freezes. When is the last time anyone has called him so sweetly by his first name? Not ‘the Traitor.’ Not ‘Warden’ or ‘Sir’ or ‘Teyrn’ or ‘Commander’...

Stroud reaches down again, cups his hands around his jaw, and tries to guide his face up toward him. “You don’t have to -- ”

But he _wants_ to. He finds he wants nothing more right now than to lick and suck and swallow him to completion. So he shakes Stroud’s gentleness off of him with another impatient growl and a glare this time, as he grips his hips and licks from his balls all the way up his shaft to the tip and back down again. 

Stroud lets out another delicious whimper, so he does it again. And again. And again. Like a dog lapping eagerly at its owner’s...hands. And he savors every throaty giggle and gasp and moan like a dog does its master’s praise. And then, when Stroud finally loses himself and whatever ridiculous notions he had of being delicate with the ‘old man’ and begins to start bucking frantically into his face, he takes him back into his mouth, all the way back, and bobs up and down with him, matching his fretful thrusts. 

He hears another helpless groan from the man and then a few more quick erratic jerks before he feels a warm spume against the back of his throat and Stroud’s hips stutter to a halt.

Loghain slurps up what he can of his spend and then swallows it down, and finally releases Stroud’s hips with a smirk of self-satisfaction as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

 _Now_ they’re even.

Stroud reaches for him again, grabbing haphazardly for his hands or his shoulders or whatever he can get a hold of to pull him up and around him. Loghain shouldn’t be surprised that he’s a cuddler. He makes sure not to spare Stroud’s post-coital pliability a single jab of his sharp elbows or fingers or sore knees as he scrabbles up onto the narrow bed with him.

“I thought you said you were _new_ to all of this?” Stroud asks him once they’ve both settled into a position they can live with for the moment -- Loghain lies next to him, his head against his chest and one knobby leg slung over him with their hands intertwined between them.

“I have a cock, don’t I?” Loghain rolls his eyes. “I’d like to think I know what feels good.” Not to mention he’s had years of pent-up, frustrated sexual fantasies about one man, in particular...

Stroud laughs. “Yes, well...I’m sure I put my chevalier training to shame with my previous performance in the Deep Roads. But be that as it may, you didn’t _owe_ me anything.”

“Well, I wanted to.” He imagines it as a palate cleanser, of sorts. A way to push past the awkwardness of sex in extenuating circustmances and refusing to acknowledge it for half a week, while also demonstrating that it wasn’t just a fluke or an accident. That he wanted more than just a couple minutes of stolen desperation from him.

 _Annnnd_ , he supposes, to prove to _himself_ that he can be over Maric.

Stroud props himself up on his side and looks over at him curiously.

“What?” Loghain asks, sounding more defensive and irritable than he means to.

“Tell me about him.”

“Who?” 

“The one you wanted but could never have...” He taps Loghain’s temple lightly, then his own. “You can’t stop thinking about him. Might as well talk about it.”

“I -- you’re not allowed in my head until I figure out how to get into yours!”

“Well, have you even _tried_ to listen again? To me...to any of the others?” 

“No.” Between nearly suffocating in a cave-in and being almost eaten by a bear and just barely surviving the most pain in his life while being ‘healed,’ he hasn’t really thought to give this new supposed 'ability' another shot. 

“Go ahead, then…”

Loghain closes his eyes, and realizes all he can really hear is Stroud’s heart beating through his chest. _Thum-bump. Thum-bump._ He would happily just let that lull him to sleep if Stroud would let him, but...

“You have to listen _past_ the heartbeat. Through it…” he tells him.

He lifts his head up begrudgingly, and the _thum-bump_ is still there, the rhythm pounding in his ears and through the rest of him now, as if his own pulse has synced up with it somehow. It _should_ be alarming, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. It’s very nearly comforting.

“ _Focus_ , Mac Tir…”

He tries. To listen beyond or through or whatever. He only sort of remembers what the whispers sounded like when he was high off his ass on deep mushrooms, and he tries to listen for that. But they’re not in the Deep Roads. And, fortunately, there are no Darkspawn close enough to amplify the Archdemon’s echoes in his blood. But gradually, as he sifts hazily through the inventory of things he _can_ hear, the heartbeats begin to warp and transform into a different kind of rhythm of familiar sounds and half-whispered images. Not _quite_ a song, but...

 _Thum-bump. Thum-bump_...the swish of a well-honed blade... _thum-bump_...the sound of fine steel cleaving unarmored flesh... _thum-bump_...whispered screams, imagined but no less real and dear to him... _thum-bump_...a somber, hollow murmuring laid like lead over a roaring fury... _thum-bump_. _Thum-bump. Thum-bump_. 

“Were they yours?” he whispers.

“My sister. Her children. My nieces and nephews. My brother and mother. They spared my father, perhaps he was too broken or scared to fight back by the time they got to him, but he took his own life a few weeks later all the same.”

“The Game?” 

Stroud nods, and Loghain doesn’t need to listen to his heartbeat anymore to feel the anger burning low and deep within him, like hot coals nestled in the ashes, waiting for something _worthy_ of his wrath to flare up and consume. It’s such an obvious thing, that he wonders how he never noticed it before.

“We play our own version in Ferelden.” _Cailan_ , the last thing he had left of Rowan and Maric, left to the Darkspawn by his own command to ‘save’ the kingdom he ended up nearly losing in the end anyway. And his dear, sweet, brilliant Anora. Lost to him now, along with countless others, worthy men and women caught in the fallout of his own attempts at playing, and losing spectacularly.

“Your daughter is not dead.”

“No, but she and most of Ferelden certainly wish _I_ was.”

“That is a very different thing.”

“Is it better or worse?”

Stroud frowns at him. “We should _both_ be grateful that as Wardens, we are now exempt from playing such games.”

“Are we? Or have we just been demoted to pawns?”

Stroud thinks about Woolsey’s increasingly ambitious ‘suggestions.’ How the orders from Weisshaupt have seemed to become more and more concerned with involving the Order in the political maneuverings of the rest of the realm as of late, and he sighs. “Perhaps you are right.”

“I usually am. Even when it’s unfortunate to be so. Actually...mostly just then.”

Stroud stares thoughtfully at him, his face completely placid, but now that he knows it’s there, Loghain can feel the simmering rage ebbing and flowing below the surface.

After a few moments, Stroud declares, “I am to head up through the Deep Roads with a small group of Wardens toward Kirkwall in a few days. Once everyone has had a chance to rest and regroup.”

He doesn’t tell him it’s also an excuse to investigate the rumors about their missing healer, a disappearance he feels partly responsible for, in the hope that they might be able to find him before the Templars do, or that he suspects Amell might have already headed that way in pursuit of him herself.

“And?”

Stroud turns away from him onto his side, but takes his hand and his whole arm with him, pulling Loghain tighter in against his back. “Would you join me?”

They’re spooning. They are _spooning_ , and Loghain clenches his teeth because he’s not sure how the flames he has ended up the big spoon and what he’s supposed to do with this urge he has to wrap his arms around him and squeeze. “Do your other subordinates often get ‘invited’ to join you on missions? And are _they_ allowed to decline?”

“I try to nurture everyone’s strengths and offer them assignments that fit them.” He arches back against Loghain rather obscenely then, and it’s a good thing he’s facing the other direction so he can’t see the way it makes him blush. “A couple of Dwarven merchants and a _Fereldan_ upstart are supposedly planning an expedition ‘deeper than anyone’s been in over a thousand years’ to an ancient thaig in search of treasure.”

“No.” Loghain says, flatly...pretending to be unmoved by either his words or his pert rump.

“The First Warden wants us to investigate, to see if there’s anything down there we might be able to use. It’s largely unmapped territory for us. And I know how much you _love_ exploring uncharted sections of the Deep Roads…”

“Absolutely not.” Loghain’s voice just barely begins to waver at the end as Stroud shimmies his bare ass back against him.

“Oh, but I _really_ think you’d enjoy it,” Stroud laughs.

That bloody laughter! It’s really not fair how every time Loghain hears it, it seems to go straight to his cock. In the past few weeks, he has sometimes hated how easily it burbles out of him, even in the most dismal of times. But at least this whole -- _whatever this is_ \-- it’s just between them. For the moment at least, he has Stroud giggling and whimpering like this all to himself. And he wonders now if he’ll ever again be able to survive this new doomed life without it.

“Would we share a tent?” Loghain finally nudges himself back against him.“Or just push our moldy bedrolls together and cut holes in them?”

“Nobody would bat an eye.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Loghain mutters. “But if I break another leg, _please_ just leave me down there to die this time.”

“It’s a deal.” Another low chuckle. This one rumbles and reverberates through Loghain’s entire body. _Fuck_. “I’ll have Garevel pack our oldest, moldiest bedrolls and a pair of scissors. But for now...”

“Hmm?” Loghain is now so hopelessly lost in the undulating muscles of Stroud’s lower back that he doesn’t even realize his hips are moving in tandem, grinding against him through his breeches.

“We can just fuck in a bed like normal people.”

“Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's how Hawke ends up meeting Loghain and Stroud, her favorite "Uncle Wardens" in this world state!
> 
> The end! FOR _NOW_! 👀


End file.
